


In fire and embers

by Yoruhime



Series: Fire and ashes [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Disturbia-series related, Gen, M/M, Reality swap, Season 4 AU, Slight spoilers for TSWE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:36:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3220901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yoruhime/pseuds/Yoruhime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek snaps awake, acutely aware of the presence to his left – the shadow looking down at him, who can only be one man, and yet is wildly different. He rises a cool, unimpressed eyebrow in Peter's direction.<br/>“Are you just enjoying the view, or do you want something?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	In fire and embers

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! And here is the start of a new series, albeit a lot shorter that Disturbia (or at least it's how I'm planning it, but no promises). This OS follows directly after "When ashes fall". Be warned, there is spoilers for the end of TSWE in it! Nothing major, but still.  
> For eventual new readers, I think this is understandable as a stand alone, but it'll certainly make more sense if you have read Disturbia and TSWE first.
> 
> Hpe you'll enjoy!

_Derek sighs, and suddenly decides he just had enough. He lets the book he was reading fall on the couch and rises, decided to stretch his legs – he can read tactical volumes on werewolf warfare alright, most of the time. It's actually one of his preferred ways to pass the time. But..._

_“Bored already, love? And here I thought I had found the perfect gift”. Derek half-twists to throw a dry glance to Peter over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. The man shrugs innocently, even as his lips twitch. “You do like to read on Pack tactics”, he points out._

_Derek cannot help his huff of laughter. “I do”. He arches his back luxuriously until something pops satisfyingly. The way he can feel Peter's eyes sliding up his body doesn't exactly hurt either, and he fully turns to deliberately take a step forwards, a wry smile playing on his lips. “But in old Greek, truly?”._

_Peter tilts his head, eyes darkening as his finger traces a slow caress along Derek's cheek. “You know Greek”, he rumbles out. His grip shifts, slips on Derek's jaw to tilt it sideways and nuzzle into his neck, right over his pulse point, inhaling the scent of his lover like it's opium smoke._

_Derek lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, and my last lesson was four years ago”. He bares a bit more of his throat with an encouraging sound, shivering when the hot lips become tongue, and then gentle teeth. He slips a hand on Peter's neck and higher, in his hair, tugging gently, then more insistently, until he can kiss him, open-mouthed and urgent._

_Peter's hand leave his hips for his upper back, and soon Derek feels the familiar pattern of a slow caress between his shoulder blades. “Like it that much, huh? You should have told me, I would have gotten it sooner”. He feels the curve of his lover's lips, a silent, amused smile, getting both the joke and the words behind it._

_They both know why Derek got the tattoo; how it represents survival and forgiveness and resilience all in one. And they haven't forgotten what it covers. Never will, either of them._

_But they're here. They got through, in the end. They..._

Derek snaps awake, acutely aware of the presence to his left – the shadow looking down at him, who can only be one man, and yet is wildly different. Different enough that the scrutiny woke him up instantly, and alert for any kind of attack.

He exhales, forcing the urge of flight-or-flight to come down, and he rises a cool, unimpressed eyebrow in Peter's direction. “Are you just enjoying the view, or do you want something?”. Eyes flash a savage, electric blue in the dark room, and Peter strolls the last meter to the couch, predation rolling off him by waves.

Derek cannot help to be slightly surprised that the man'd show his hand so fast; the mistrust and tension are pregnant and heavy in the air, unmistakable, as are the contracted shoulders and back, like a coiled cobra, ready to spring. But again, Derek himself demonstrated how well he knows Peter earlier, mad or not, and how deep that knowledge runs.

Mayhap it was a mistake on his part. But after the shock of waking into this...stone grave, no sound, no scent, breathing nothing but dust in sharp, panicked gasps....Fuck, he got his fair share of torture and beatings in his life, courtesy of Alexander, or Hunters, or even Peter himself. 

But that...it was terrible in a way he can't even describe. His breathing speeds up imperceptibly at the reminder, and he closes his eyes. He has no idea how long he spent here, crushed between four walls, unable to move, before he heard the roar. An Alpha's roar. _Peter_ , he had thought, weak with sudden relief.

And no matter how glad he was to be dragged out, seeing the boy – Scott – instead of his lover had left him more rattled than he liked to admit. Even more so when he realized that he wasn't...well. Home, for lack of a better word. He hadn't meant to crack, to show weakness in asking to see Peter – the plan had been to say nothing that could be used against him in any way.

But it had been stronger than him. Alone and shaken, and surrounded by this strange Pack he didn't know, made of at least two creatures that weren't wolves...Yeah, he had needed an anchor, something at least remotely familiar, and Peter it had been. Even if, according to the kids, the man was on the rather dangerous side of sociopathic.

But it's not like he wasn't used to it, after all, and so Derek had asked to be taken to him. Better a mad Peter, one that he knows and can predict to a point, than a bunch of complete strangers and potential enemies – especially considering they wanted to bring him to freaking Deaton, of all people.

Yeah, count on it.

So here he is, at – he throws a quick glance towards the large window – at three in the morning, or about, in the apartment of an apparently slightly unhinged version of his lover, on a ratty couch (seriously, where the fuck did he find the damn thing?) and being glared at in a fashion that would make anybody else cringe and back away in self-preservation. The usual.

He sighs, racks a hand through his hair, and throws his jacket off. He intends to sit, but he sees the minute twitch from the man and changes his calm sitting up in an awkward roll to the side, barely managing to to end on his feet besides the sofa. Peter's clawed hand misses his throat and closes on nothing but air. “You know, we can speak as civilized people, too”, he points out.

He's utterly unruffled by the sudden assault, and he notices the way Peter's eyes narrow. He obviously expected retaliation, and, considering he attacked first, probably counted on a win in a fight and thus an occasion to question Derek while in a favorable position. Jesus. 

He knew the Derek of this reality was an lecturing, holier-than-you asshole who managed to fall for fucking Kate, but apparently he has a temper and he sucks at fighting, too. Joy. He shakes his head – when Peter is in an aggressive mood, hitting back only mean entering his game and giving him the upper hand. He won't make that mistake.

So instead he turns away toward the kitchen in the corner, body language as non-threatening as he can make it while staying on his guard – he's not stupid enough to not to be, not when he can feel Peter's anger and frustration in the air. He's half-expecting a mental assault, to be frank, but nothing of his tension pierces in his tone as he speaks again.

“Look, there's no need for that. If it can give me a peaceful night of sleep, I'll tell you what you want to know”. Peter arches an incredulous brow at him, and Derek laughs. “Okay, not everything. Some things, I'll keep to myself, just as I'm sure you'd do if our situations were reversed – keeping a few aces up your sleeves. But still...you can ask without jumping at my throat, okay?”.

He turns away to the counter, to leave Peter the time to mull it over – pushing the man is rarely a good idea. Peter does whatever he wants, always, and if he decides to change a course of action, it may be thanks to Derek's arguments, but it only after having thought it through carefully. So he let him stew with the idea and start rummaging in the cupboards.

But after a minute-long search, he _has_ to say something, because the conclusion he just arrived to just cannot be right. “You don't have a coffee machine?”. Peter's eyes snap to him, and he stares at Derek like he doesn't have the first idea to what to make of him, visibly taken aback by the incongruous demand.

“In the...last cupboard to you left”, he finally says, and the aggression finally drops from his stance. He steps forwards to join Derek, look at him for a long second, and then shakes his head like he's trying to wake up from an odd, senseless dream.

Derek throws him his best grin. “Cups?”. Peter jerks his head towards another cupboard, and Derek rises a pointed eyebrow at him. “You know, technically, I'm the guest, here – if you want answers at three in the fucking morning, you'd better help. The faster I get my coffee, the faster we talk”. He tilts his head. “So, cups?”.

The silence that follows borders on downright murderous, but Peter finally gets a move in, and Derek privately smirks to himself – as he said, aggression is never the way to got with one Peter Hale. But battle of wits and information? Ha. That's generally the best laid-plan, and it seems it's just as true for this other Peter.

Still, he's going to have to be careful in what he says – Peter, his Peter, is ruthless and terribly clever, and if half of what the kids said is true, then so is the man besides him. Treading lightly. The subject of Gifts is out of question; so is Logan's or Alexander's fates. Or Jen's. And as for the reason he knows Peter so well...well, that's a pretty minefield alright.

Okay. One step at time. Coffee before anything – he needs his head out of the clouds, and hopefully it'll warm him up a bit. He's strangely cold since the tomb, and that's especially weird considering how hot werewolves' organisms run normally. Still, he has no intention of approaching Deaton baring a life-threatening loss of body heat. Coffee will have to do.

He hands his full cup to Peter, grabs his own. “You don't ask if a want sugar?”. Derek's mouth quirks as he throws an amused glance to the man propped on the counter – he knows this game, too. Slipping into banter to make him admit out loud how well he knows the man by saying Peter takes his coffee black. Trying to get the first hit in, always.

He shrugs, faux-nonchalantly. “I never take sugar in my coffee, so it didn't cross my mind”. He meets Peter's eyes in quiet challenge. Parried. Try again. “Sorry”. Peter doesn't answer but inclines his head, just a fraction, the hint of a smile on his lips. Touché. 

But of course, it's never that easy, not with Peter, and he finally pushes off the counter. “Very well”, he murmurs, low and calm, and suddenly the tension is back in his whole stance. He moves with this dangerous, silent grace that Derek knows so well. “You have you coffee. It seems only fair I get my answers as well. I'll even throw a proposition to sit down in the bargain”.

There isn't much Derek can retort to that; no way he can delay – and he knows refusing to talk outright will only break this truce-like accord of them. Peter caught him unprepared on this one – guard down too fast, Derek. You should have been more wary. He half rises his cup in acknowledgment of the point. “Okay. Shoot”.

He walks to the nearest armchair and has the time to take a sip of burning liquid without being fired at with questions. But he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Rushing in is for fools. No, Peter is watching him like a hawk, silent, like he's trying to work out what to ask first. Finally the man relaxes on his own chair, like a sprawled and yet watchful predator.

“How come you know me so well?”. Derek can't help his chuckle – nailed it right on the head, of course. The most embarrassing, complex question first. No matter what world you're in, Peter will be Peter, it seems. Damned intuitive, and devious enough for two. 

Derek clicks his tongue and gives himself a few more seconds by taking a swallow of coffee, eying the man sitting in front of him. He won't fib around – not when there's another wolf in the room, no doubt listening for the telltale of a lie. And yet...can he tell the truth? He cannot be certain what is the relation between the other Derek and this Peter, but he has a feeling it's not so good.

And he has no idea how his host may react to an offhand “Oh, we're lovers”. Caution it is, then. “I told you. I never left”. Bless Scott for running his mouth about his other's version history, not even aware of how much intel his questions gave out – he knows for certain that the other Derek had fled after the fire, leaving Peter behind. Coward.

“I was here after the fire – stayed in BC until you woke up, and I...helped, as much as I could, after. I'm rather used to dealing with you, moods and all”. He shrugs, hoping he looks sufficiently idle about the subject, like the point isn't worth of interest. “Told you”, he concludes, “I'm used to you around. That's all”.

“To the point of being able to instantly understand my state of mind?”. The question is cold, pointed, almost mocking, and yet Derek can hear the hint of mounting anger behind the words.

He puts his cup back on the table in a precise, calculated movement, rises his eyes. “It is so terrifying, the idea that I may know you? Know how you work, how you think?”. The reaction is just as wild as he expected – a low snarl and the flash of blue pupils in the semi-dark. _Don't like me to play you around, do you, love?_

He frowns at the thought. The endearment has slipped out, easily, even through he's perfectly aware that this man isn't his lover – his Peter. And yet...he lost Peter, over and over, to madness and rage, and he has the scars to prove it; he saw more versions, more facets of his lover than he ever believed could exist in a person: Omega, Gifted, carer, psychopath, Alpha, murderer... 

And in the end, he still loves the man, even with how much hatred and blood there has been between them. He always saw...the core beyond the rage. Clever, devious, ruthless Peter, with his razor-sharp wit and his manipulative ways – and his uncanny ability for thinking out of the box, mind on his survival and that of whose he cares about, no matter what.

These are Peter main qualities, as ambiguously gray as they may look to an outsider, and Derek learned to recognize them with time. Oh, it took him a long, long time. Hours upon hours of interaction and close proximity, interspersed by blood and fury and betrayal that cut deeper than any knife. 

But he never will make the mistake of thinking the madness is all that's left of Peter – never again. He is _here_ , even through the worst of his loss of clarity, even with how unbalanced he still is, and probably will stay. He knows the Peter far behind the mask, and that, along with their crazy history, gives Derek _understanding_.

But he suspects the Peter facing him has long forgotten what is it to truly have someone who shows empathy or caring. Someone who is ready to tell him that the Hunters, and the arsonists, actually deserved it – he is used to be alone, so used to it that he let himself fall into his sociopathic ways far deeper than his Peter ever did.

 _You made me into what I am. I stand by that. If it wasn't for you, I would have fallen headfirst into this mad quest of mine, cutting every tie, burning everything I was, only to be consumed by vengeance and insanity. I hated you for it, but you kept me human. You've been my anchor, and more often than not, my sanity_.

Derek closes his eyes. Peter's words, almost six months old, murmured at his ear, right into the sweaty skin of his neck. He suddenly get them so much more, for he believes the man he's looking at is exactly who his lover described. A Peter who has been left alone – in coma, in agony, in fear and madness. A rabid dog, Deaton had said.

He looks at his host once more, reads the tension in his stance: jaw clenched, back straight, eyes almost panicked and yet furious...like Derek knowing him is a threat rather than a good thing. Like he's expecting his guest to start enjoying and using his upper hand mercilessly. _Oh, Peter...what have they done to you? And what have you done to yourself?_

Derek hesitates. The truth is, he has no time for this – this Peter, who is broken in ways that go far deeper than he ever faced; and the man doesn't trust him (probably doesn't trust anyone). They have no history, nothing to link them, not with this word's Derek fleeing like the disgusting, thoughtless coward he is. And he still needs to find a way to go home.

But this is _Peter_. Not his lover maybe, not truly, but...he is...something. Somebody important enough that Derek decides to take the risk. Maybe, probably, it'll change nothing, will mean nothing to the man. After all, for him Derek is only a stranger, and one he's certainly wary of. But the young wolf believes that he deserves to know this.

He rises, steps to the window because he doesn't want the man to believe he's asking for anything with this, and says, slowly, eyes lost on the full moon. “You're right. I know you – everything of you. I've seen you torture and kill and main. I've seen you walk away and leave _me_ to be tortured, alone and defenseless. I've seen you shifted, fully, a monstrous shape barely wolf-like”.

His lips stretch into a rueful smile. “We tore into each other, you and I, messily and more than is probably healthy”. He throws an ironic glance over his shoulder, before turning around fully. Peter is looking at him like enthralled, eyes slightly wide, mouth still open on some kind of witty remark that he seems to have forgotten. 

Derek moves forward, just one step, so he can see Peter fully, from head to toe, and detail everything – this face he knows so well, which is just the same, except free of burns. “I've seen you love and care, so much that it survived even your hatred, or your rise to Alpha power”, he continues, tone turned into a low, raw whisper. “Yes, I know you, Peter Hale”.

Derek steps forwards once more, until he is standing face to face with his host, only the table between them. “I know you always take your coffee black. Or that you're up at 5AM every morning like the madman you are. I know”, he swallows, conscious of the weight of his next words, “ what sound you make when I mouth and bite at your throat”.

“And I know all of this because I love you. Because, as I said, I never left. Madness, killing spree, violence...you name it, I was here. Always, and I've got the scars to prove it”. He smiles, half-hearted, when Peter brutally rises, looking torn between the urge to flee and to attack Derek to make him shut up. 

The young wolf slips between sofa and table, until he's close enough to touch, air shared with every breath. “I know you, Peter Hale”, he rises a hand gently to touch the pale, unmarred skin on a cheek, “because we have been lovers for almost six years”. 

There's no answer, but Derek never expected one. He steps back and away, giving Peter his personal space back. “I'll be at Stiles' for the near future”, he says calmly. “If you ever want to talk, I'm here. If you don't, then I promise I'll stay out of your way”. He grabs his jacket and walks away, almost without a sound, dark shadow in the night.

The door closes behind him.


End file.
